Her Name Was April
by anangelslament
Summary: Mark finds April on that fateful night.


"April! Babe, I'm home," Roger called as he returned to the loft after a long shift at the bar. But instead of the redhead's exotic eyes and welcoming smile beckoning him home into her arms he was met by his roommate. Mark's eyes, usually a vibrant, electric sky blue were lackluster. Across his face hung a mask of trepidation.

"Roger…" he moaned.

"Mark?" He lifted an eyebrow questioningly. "Where's April? Did she go home or are you hiding her from me?" he joked. He quickly turned on his heel and began to head to their bedroom. Mark grabbed him by the elbow, throwing himself into Roger's arms, sobbing. Roger held him a moment in consolation before repeating his question. He held Mark out at arms length and looked straight into tear-stained eyes. "Where's April? And what the hell is wrong with you?"

"Rog…she's…she's…April…she's dead," he choked.

Roger collapsed to the floor as the sound of someone pounding on the door echoed throughout their apartment. Mark made sure Roger was ok for the time being before heading to the door where the police and coroner's office were waiting. He escorted them to the bathroom where April's pale form was drenched in crimson, her bloody note still visible on the mirror. The smell made Mark's stomach lurch. He quickly swallowed and walked as far away as possible, taking a few deep breaths before going to tend to Roger.

Roger had crawled over to the nearest couch and was frantically clinging to a pillow. Mark sat by his side and took him in his arms with whispers of "Sh…hey…it's going to be ok. Everything will work out alright."

Puffy eyes met lucid pools. "It still smells like her…like her perfume…the one I bought her for Christmas…remember…she said that cherry blossom reminded her of home," he wailed. Hot tears flowed freely down his face. He abandoned Mark's lap to settle into the crook of his neck as a new barrage of tears broke through.

"Oh…God…Roger," Mark gasped as he stroked the grief stricken rock star's bleached blonde hair, collapsing into a fresh wave of his own tears at the thought of the sight two rooms away.

"Mr. Cohen, may I speak with you a moment," questioned an officer from the bathroom doorway.

"Rog…I gotta get up."

Roger's limp body slid off of Mark's as the young filmmaker got to his feet and traipsed over to where the cop was standing. "Yes, officer?" the boy whimpered.

"I just have a few questions to ask you about the victim."

"April," he whispered.

"I'm sorry?"

"Her name is…was…April."

"Yes." A pause. "Ok. You said to the operator that you found her when you came home," he inquired as his eyes skimmed a notebook in his hand.

"Yes."

"Did you touch or move anything?"

"No…well…yes," he squeaked.

"What?"

Mark intently studied his hands, red and raw from fingerless gloves used to film in the freezing New York City winter. "Mr. Cohen. What did you touch? I need to know."

"Her," he wept. "I touched her. I thought she was still breathing. I thought she was alive."

He buried his face in his hands. Hot tears stung at his cheeks, the lump in his throat getting larger by the second as his mind rushed back to an hour ago when he found the junkie lying in a pool of her own blood. He knew something was wrong when her massive head of bouncing ruby curls was not found bouncing around the corner just waiting for the moment Roger returned home from work. Something was not right, he could see it in her eyes before he left to film, something in her eyes beyond the miasma of drugs, beyond everything to that bright shine that had slowly dulled with every needle and tonight, he found, was dead.

The door to the bathroom was slightly ajar and as Mark's pale knuckles tapped at the door it creaked open. "April?" No answer. Mark soon found out why. They lay April in the bathtub, eyes wide open, intently studying the cracks in the ceiling but seeing nothing. The sickly, sweet aroma of blood filled his nostrils as he approached her lifeless body. He wanted to vomit. He needed air.

After stepping out on the fire escape to collect his thoughts and breathe he went back inside. "How beautiful she must have thought this would be," thought Mark. "How beautifully morbid." Her lips were painted scarlet, parted slightly, as if waiting for her kiss from prince charming to rouse her from her mortal slumber. Her favorite dress, the one she had worn when they first meet, was dyed claret. Her eyes, which had once shone like the sun and sparkled with the brilliance of life were glazed over, still searching for happiness but finding only death and destruction. Nothing had been left untouched by her deathly splendor.

"Mr. Cohen?"

Mark shook his head, clearing it of macabre speculations. "Yes? I'm sorry," he weakly replied.

"Did you find the suicide note?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"There," he pointed. "On the bathroom mirror."

"Did you know Ms. Erickson was HIV positive?"

"Yes," he quietly whispered as he picked at blood stained clothes.

Roger let out a blood curdling howl. "Is he going to be alright," inquired the detective.

Mark merely nodded and replied, "I hope so."


End file.
